A Letter to Saint Paul from an AmericanMature

For as long as I can remember, my parents took me to St. Anthony of Padua's Church every Sunday. When I was younger, I had no idea what Father Iglesias preached about during the homily, nor did I understand the verses of the psalms and offertory songs we recited. Then again, what child would? As far as I know, the Bible touches on issues that most adults don't even understand. So then how could my mother, a devout Catholic expect me at the age of five to understand why Jesus of Nazareth died for us? How could I understand what a burden it was to have someone mock you and nail you to a wooden cross?

Even now, I'm not entirely sure of what I believe in. There are times when I believe that there is a God--or some kind of all-powerful being, for that matter--watching over us, helping us to make the right decisions in life. Likewise, there are times when I believe that the Devil walks among us, hoping to drag us into Hell. Of course, there are times when I think all of this is complete bullshit. Sure, historians and researchers have discovered few articles of evidence that proves Christ was indeed alive, but I still have my doubts.

Maybe it was a miracle of God or just pure luck but I have to admit, I never once thought that I would be lucky enough to be here right now, writing this story. Of course, I have a lot of people to thank but I'll get to that later. Now, I have to start at the beginning.

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